


Moving Rooms

by Kyele



Series: The Roommates Fics [2]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Breaking up the trio, Duo pairings are endgame, Kingsman Reverse Big Bang 2019, porn au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-16 11:36:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19317391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: Eggsy scrambles for the remote. The pause button is still the same two familiar parallel lines, and he hits it almost by instinct. The face of Harry Hard-On remains on the screen, centered and enlarged and familiar.“Tequila,” Eggsy says slowly. “Am I going crazy, or…”Tequila is staring at the screen with the same dawning astonishment that Eggsy is feeling. “Oh my god,” he says. “Harry Hard-On is our boss.”A new porn star enters the arena, and the rooms are reshuffled.(Ginger Ale/Tequila and Harry/Eggsy are endgame)





	Moving Rooms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emmatheslayer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmatheslayer/gifts).



“ _The King’s Dick,”_ Tequila reads.

“This one’s called _Pride and Penises,”_ Eggsy says, brushing some dirt off the label.

“And this is _The Legion’s Last Lube_ ,” Ginger Ale says. “Tequila, where did you _find_ these?” _These_ mean the box full of old video tapes, all of them pornographic, in covers that date from the nineties at the very latest.

“In the old storage closet at Statesman,” Tequila says. “Aren’t they a hoot?”

“And you brought them home?”

Tequila shrugs. “Merlin said he didn’t care what I did with them as long as they were gone when he looked next.”

“Hang on, I’ve heard of this one,” Ginger Ale says, squinting at the cover of the one she’s fished out. “ _Mamma Mia!: Here We Come Again._ It’s a sequel, isn’t it? I saw the first one.”

“Oh man, that was the one that got me into mommy kink,” Tequila says enthusiastically. Then he sees the look Ginger Ale is giving him. “What?”

“Tequila, I love you, but don’t even think about it,” she says. “I am not your mamma.”

“Understood,” he says meekly.

“Well, was it any good?” Eggsy asks.

“Was what any good?”

Eggsy nods to the movie Ginger Ale is holding. “The first one.”

“Was it any – ” Ginger Ale stares at him. “Of course it was! It was one of Harry Hard-On’s first roles.”

“Oh man, that was a Harry Hard-On film?” Eggsy actually claps his hands in delight, which he thinks he can be forgiven for, because: _Harry Hard-On_. The man’s a legend in the porn industry; he’d made something over _eighty_ films in his career, all of them featuring his trademark foot-long dick. “I’ve hardly ever seen any of those! Can we watch it?”

“We don’t have a VCR,” Tequila begins.

Ginger Ale cuts him off ruthlessly. “What do you mean, you’ve hardly ever seen any of these? What kind of porn star are you?”

“The kind who just became legal three years ago?” Eggsy raises an eyebrow. “His works are all been out of print since the nineties!”

“Which is a crying shame,” Tequila muses. “It’s our history being lost here.”

“No one cares about preserving porn,” Eggsy says with a sigh. Then he perks up. “But here we have our own treasure trove! Shall we pop one on?”

“Us and what VCR?” Tequila repeats. He waves at their entertainment setup, which is a generous name for a flatscreen TV that they’d gotten cheap at a going out of business sale and a DVD player that had fallen off the back of a truck back in Eggsy’s old estate. “I realize you’re a nineties baby, but VHS tapes don’t go in a DVD player.”

“Can’t we, I dunno, rent one?”

“No, Eggsy,” Ginger Ale sighs. “We cannot rent one.”

“Well, how much does one cost?” For this, Eggsy will put in another call to Ryan and Jamal and see what else has fallen off a truck lately.

“They don’t _make_ them anymore.”

“What?” Eggsy pouts. “You mean we can’t watch these?”

Tequila and Ginger Ale look at each other. “There’s probably a few on Craiglist,” Tequila says tentatively.

A minute later everyone has their mobiles out and are checking. “Here’s one, only a few tube stops down,” Ginger Ale says. “Twenty quid.”

“If we go out to Rulslip there’s one for fifteen.”

Eggsy makes a face. “I’d rather pay the five extra not to go all the way out to Rulslip.”

“Says the bright shining new star of Statesman Studios,” Ginger Ale says sourly.

“Hey, I said I’d be the one paying the extra, didn’t I?”

“So you did.” Her fingers fly. “All right, I’ve messaged the seller. Tequila, can you pick it up tomorrow?”

“If you all turn over the dosh by then,” he says easily.

Ginger Ale reaches into her purse and pulls out a fiver. “Here you go.”

Tequila gives her a hurt look. “You’re not going to tuck it into my underwear?”

She leans back against the couch, smile slowly spreading over her face. “Not until you dance for me, darling.”

“Oh, I’ll dance.” He grins. “And I’ll expect more than a fiver for it, too.”

* * *

Eggsy floats through the next day’s shoot, even though they’re doing a second season to _The Rent Boy_ and today’s scenes involve daddy kink, which is usually one of Eggsy’s biggest hang-ups. Maybe it’s having lost his own da young, or maybe it’s just how he’s wired, but daddy kink has never done it for him. It does it for the customers, though, and that’s what Eggsy’s got a fluffer for. Usually. Today he’s so caught up in the thought of getting to see something made by the legend Harry Hard-On that he hardly even notices it when Tequila gets a little too far in character and smacks his arse, telling him to “Give it up for daddy, oh yeah, unh”.

“And cut,” Hart says. He’s not the director on this or any other project, but two years on from his takeover of Statesman everyone is used to Hart sticking his finger in every pie. They’re not just tolerating it, neither: Hart’s new approach to royalties and golden touch for selling porn has made even Merlin warm up to Hart’s intervention, though with Merlin it can sometimes be hard to tell. “Unwin, are you with me?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Eggsy says hastily.

“Because you looked a little glazed over.”

“I was in character, sir. Blissed out.”

“Mm-hmm.” Hart sounds skeptical, but he’s got one eye on the footage review, and he nods. “Well, the camera is fooled, anyway, so let’s put that one in the can. What else have you got to film today?”

Eggsy hops off the ‘hotel bed’ and reaches for his jeans. “Think that’s it, yeah?”

Hart raises an eyebrow. “Somewhere to be, Mr. Unwin? Hot date?”

“Just promised the roommates we’d watch a movie together,” Eggsy says easily.

“We’re done all the scenes on this soundstage, Mr. Hart,” the director says, “and the next set won’t be prepped till tomorrow’s filming. Is there something else you’d like to – ?”

“No,” Mr. Hart says, taking his eyes off of Eggsy at last. “Thank you, that will be fine. Please keep up the good work.”

Eggsy practically runs home after that, lest Mr. Hart take it into his head to keep Eggsy back for reshoots. He manages to beat both Tequila and Ginger Ale, which means he at least has a chance to shower; it hadn’t been a messy shoot, but porn is one of those industries where aggressive bathing is preferred. He’s hopping into his last pair of clean jeans (note to self: do laundry) when Tequila comes in, and he’s holding a black electronic-looking box that’s covered in dust.

“That’s a VCR?” Eggsy asks, shoving his wet hair back behind his ears.

Tequila eyerolls. “Please stop reminding me how much younger than me you are,” he says, long-suffering. “Yes. This is a VCR.”

“Sweet.” Eggsy hovers while Tequila hooks it up, refusing to be distracted even when Tequila makes some suggestions about what else Eggsy can do with Tequila’s arse, if he’s going to be up it. “We should try it out, right? To make sure it works.”

“I tried it at the other bloke’s place before I put down the money.”

“Come on, Tequila. How do you know it works with _our_ TV?” Tequila has had to connect several cables to adapters to get the A/V output to work with their more modern TV; Eggsy doesn’t think he’s crazy to be worried. “Just a few minutes,” he coaxes. “Just to be sure. _Then_ we’ll wait for Ginger Ale.”

“She’s going to be pissed.”

“No she won’t. Come on, Tequila.”

Tequila sighs. “Fine.”

Eggsy lets out a triumphant cry and grabs the first VHS to come to hand – _Pride and Penises._ “Put it in, put it in!”

“Calm your tits.” Tequila does just that, and Eggsy watches in satisfaction as the machine sucks the tape in. “Okay, here we go.” Tequila hits play.

The screen is blank for a minute. Then it fuzzes to life. An old logo appears – Kings’ Ltd., a now-defunct porn studio that had been a major player in the eighties. The screen fades again, and then a long shot of an Elizabethan-style manor appears.

“Oooh, it’s a period piece,” Eggsy says happily. “Ah! Here they come!” Two men on horses ride into view. “Which one is Harry Hard-On?”

“You don’t even know – the one on the left,” Tequila says, sighing. The camera pans in, first over the man on the right, who is no one Eggsy recognizes, and then on the man on the left. The famous Harry Hard-On. The famous –

Eggsy scrambles for the remote. The pause button is still the same two familiar parallel lines, and he hits it almost by instinct. The face of Harry Hard-On remains on the screen, centered and enlarged and _familiar_.

“Tequila,” Eggsy says slowly. “Am I going crazy, or…”

Tequila is staring at the screen with the same dawning astonishment that Eggsy is feeling. “Oh my god,” he says. “Harry Hard-On is _our boss_.”

* * *

“You guys didn’t _know_?”

Tequila and Eggsy stare at Ginger Ale with equal looks of amazement. “No, we didn’t know!” Eggsy says, recovering first. “You did?”

“Well, of course!” She crosses her arms. “I mean, not at first, I didn’t know his real name, but I’ve seen enough of his movies to notice the resemblance. And then there’s the way he knew everything there was to know about the porn industry from the moment he set foot in the door.”

“I thought he was a fast learner,” Eggsy says.

“ _I_ thought he was a bored rich toff with nothing better to do than to read about the making of porn videos,” Tequila says.

“Well, of course he’s rich, he’s _Harry Hard-On_ ,” Ginger Ale says in exasperation. “He was the first porn star to demand a cut of the profits instead of just hourly rate for his movies! And then he sold a million copies of everything he touched!”

“Ohhhh,” Eggsy says in revelation. “That’s why he was so insistent on giving us all royalties.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell us you knew our boss was the most famous porn star of the last century?” Tequila demands, injured.

“I thought you knew!”

“Well I didn’t!”

“You guys,” Eggsy interrupts. “You are focusing on the wrong thing right now. We have an opportunity – the three of us, right now – to accomplish something that very few people have ever been able to do.”

“And what’s that?” Ginger Ale wants to know.

Eggsy’s smile is positively beatific. “To ride Harry Hard-On’s twelve-inch dick.”

* * *

Eggsy is not staring at Hart’s crotch. He’s not. This is a script reading. Eggsy is a professional. He may be a porn star, but he has standards. He’s definitely not scoping out the bulge beneath Hart’s well-tailored trousers that conceals the magnificent, legendary dong of the greatest porn star of the twentieth century. And he absolutely, positively doesn’t have a bet going with his roommates that he will be the first of them to get to experience that dong, live, in living color, and hopefully up his arse.

Tequila always did accuse Eggsy of being a size queen.

“Mr. Unwin,” Hart says. Eggsy jumps guiltily and drags his eyes back up to Harry’s face. Mr. Hart’s face! His boss! Whom Eggsy will treat professionally!

Eggsy clears his throat. “Yes, sir?”

Mr. Hart raises a pointed eyebrow. “Your line?”

Eggsy looks guiltily down at the script. “Er. _Fuck me with your monster cock, sir._ ” _Oh my God_. Eggsy hopes his face is not as red as he thinks it is.

“The problem with this line,” Roxy says, from Mr. Hart’s side, “is that, if our assembled talent will forgive me…” she clears her throat. “We don’t really have anyone with a ‘monster cock’ in our stable.”

Eggsy’s gaze, as if magnetized, goes straight back to Harry’s crotch. The tips of his ears start to burn.

“Oh, that won’t be an issue,” Harry announces coolly. “I will be handling that part of the film personally.”

Eggsy’s jaw hits the table.

* * *

“This isn’t fair,” Tequila says angrily. “This doesn’t count.”

“The agreement was that the first person to get Harry’s dick was the winner,” Eggsy says.

“For _real!_ Not in porn!”

Eggsy shrugs. He really is trying to keep the smug smile off his face, but it doesn’t seem to be working. “I don’t recall specifying that.”

“You’re awfully pleased with yourself.” Tequila sounds uncharacteristically vicious. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow, Eggsy.” He storms out of the flat before Eggsy can form a reply.

Ginger Ale sighed. “Now you’ve done it.”

“Done what?” Eggsy waves his hands in befuddlement. “I won the bet! We had a bet! Now he’s going on like I’m cheating. We’re porn stars! We were never _exclusive!_ ”

“Yeah, but Tequila’s always been sensitive about the size of his dick.”

This is, unfortunately, true. Although perfectly average in every day life, as a porn star, Tequila’s dick is considered to be on the small size. This isn’t usually an issue; editing and lighting work wonders, and Tequila usually makes gay flicks anyway, where having one partner be distinctly smaller than the other is generally considered good practice. Tequila likes to bottom almost as much as Eggsy does, so that has always worked out before. But now?

“It’s still for a film,” Eggsy argues.

Ginger Ale sighs. “I know, but give him some time, okay?”

“…okay.” Eggsy fidgets awkwardly. He’d thought about maybe trying to make something to snack on, but now he just feels sad. “I’m going to catch some winks.”

“Want company?”

Slowly Eggy shakes his head. “Not tonight.”

* * *

He’s still feeling guilty the next morning. And then he’s feeling mad about being guilty. He and Tequila and Ginger Ale, yeah, they’re a thing. They live together and they fuck often and they all work in porn. But they’ve never been _jealous_ about it before. Hell, Ginger Ale had done Domme work as a private sideline on and off for the first few years they’d been together, just because porn doesn’t pay as well as people think and landlords were funny about wanting their rent just the same. Tequila had never kicked up a fuss about that. Of course, he’d known Ginger Ale a lot longer than Eggsy had. The two of them had already been a team when Eggsy had been hired by Statesman. Their initial offer of a place to stay while he got himself figured out in London had turned into a long-term situation when Eggsy had joined them in bed. But Eggsy, though he’d never given it much thought before, is suddenly aware of his status as the junior member of this trio.

Except that he’s also the star of the studio. And he’s about to make a film which – oh God – is going to be Harry Hard-On’s triumphant return to porn, after a multi-decade hiatus. When Eggsy thinks about it like that, he can start to see how Tequila might be getting his knickers in a twist.

That in mind, he swings by Tequila’s favorite takeaway place and picks up curry for everyone. “Hey guys,” he says, swinging in to the flat with a big grin. “Look what I… got… Tequila?”

Tequila is shrugging on his jacket in the entryway. There’s a suitcase at his feet. “Hey Eggsy,” he says, not actually looking at Eggsy. “I’m going to visit my cousin for a few weeks. Up in Shropshire. She’s always saying I should drop by, and I felt like now was a good time to clear my head.”

“Oh,” Eggsy says lamely. “Um… what about your shooting schedule?”

Now Tequila looks at him witheringly. “Is that all you can think about? Well, don’t worry. I’ve cleared it with the studio.”

Eggsy feels like an utter heel. “Sorry, mate. Sorry. Look, uh, I got your favorite. Would you like to take it with you?” He takes it out of the bag and holds it out. “Eat it on the train.”

“No thanks,” Tequila says. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

“Right. Er. Safe trip, Tequila.”

“Yeah.” He brushes past Eggsy as he goes. Eggsy listens to the door slam, then goes and sets the cooling food on the coffee table, trying not to cry.

* * *

Tequila’s absence leaves a hole that Eggsy doesn’t know how to fill. Ginger Ale is worried too, Eggsy can tell: he even catches her looking up train tables, and when he asks her if she’s thinking of going up to Shropshire herself she says something vague and then changes the subject.

Meanwhile, work at the studio has kicked itself up to another level. Set design on the tentatively-named _Magic Harry XXXXXXXXL_ is full steam ahead, and Mr. Hart calls Eggsy into a private meeting with him the day before shoots are scheduled to begin.

“I wanted to give you a chance,” Hart says, “to voice any questions or concerns you might have about this, prior to your beginning work.”

“Concerns?” Eggsy’s voice squeaks unbecomingly. “Why would I have concerns?”

“This shoot rather blurs the lines between employer and employee,” Hart observes. “If that makes you uncomfortable…”

“Nah, mate, why should it? I’m a porn star, for chrissake. I can keep it professional.” Despite this, Eggsy’s gaze is riveted to Harry’s crotch.

And Harry – Hart – Harry – notices. And reacts in the least helpful way possible. “Would you like to see it?” he asks.

Eggsy almost falls over. “Would I – what?”

“Some of my previous costars have been uncomfortable playing opposite me. I thought familiarity might breed comfort.”

_Is this happening? Is this really –_ Eggsy thinks of Tequila being upset that Eggsy was going to get into Harry Hard-On’s pants before he was. Then he thinks of Tequila saying that it didn’t count if it was just in a film. And _then_ he thinks of Tequila storming off to Shropshire in a strop.

“I’d love to,” Eggsy says with a wide grin.

Harry – at this point Eggsy is going to think of him as Harry – gets up and comes around from behind his desk, undoing his belt as he comes. He leans casually against the front of his desk and drops trou as unconcernedly as if he’s getting off the tube.

And oh _God_ , now is not the time to be thinking of getting off. Because Harry Hard-On is definitely a shower, not just a grower: even flaccid he’s well long, and thick besides. Those grainy eighties VHS tapes had not done his dick justice. Eggsy’s mouth is watering just looking at it. And his arse is suddenly reminding him that he hasn’t had a real fucking, a proper fucking, since Tequila had swanned off. Porn isn’t anything close and even Ginger Ale has been too distracted to really give Eggsy’s arse a workout since Tequila had left. And you know what, Ginger Ale and Tequila may have been an item long before Eggsy had come along, but he hadn’t realized that that meant they’d be an item even if something happened to Eggsy. But Tequila’s gone and Ginger Ale, although still here in body, is clearly off with him in spirit. Eggsy had been left behind. And now he’s being confronted with a literal wet dream. He’s not gonna be a monk about this.

He licks his lips and gets to his knees.

“Oh, my,” Harry says, observing this. “That _is_ how this is going to go, then?”

“Are you really that surprised?” Eggsy asks, looking up to meet his eyes. “Surely you’re used to having adoring fans.”

“Porn stars don’t have fans, they have stalkers,” Harry says, which is unfortunately no more than the truth. “And they rarely have relationships. Aren’t you in one?”

“A casual arrangement,” Eggsy says, which is how the three of them have always described themselves, and which Eggsy is learning to his dismay is closer to the truth than he’d ever wanted to confront. And another truth: “We’ve always been cool with each other stepping out.”

“Ah.” For some reason this makes Harry look sad. “A good relationship is a precious thing, Mr. Unwin. I wouldn’t underestimate it.”

“I don’t,” Eggsy whispers. “But I think I’m the only one of us who doesn’t.”

Harry’s hand finds its way into Eggsy’s hair and tugs. “If you’re expecting this to be the part where I take the high road and send you back to your lovers…”

“I’m not,” Eggsy says.

“Good,” Harry says. “Because I’m not a saint. And this isn’t that kind of movie.”

* * *

Eggsy is still working the soreness out of his jaw – twelve inches are no fucking joke, especially when Harry knows perfectly well Eggsy can deep-throat like, well, a porn star – when the front door opens. “Ginger Ale!” he cries, almost bursting with excitement. She hadn’t been home when he’d returned, eager to share his momentous news. “You’ll never guess what –  what – what do you have there?”

He knows what she has there. He does. But he wants her to say it.

“It’s a suitcase,” she sighs. “Eggsy, you’re a great mate. We’ve had fun times together, and they don’t have to be over. But right now – ”

“What, Ginger Ale?” Eggsy sits back on the ratty old sofa, feeling a thickness starting in his throat. With the way their schedules tumble around the clock, he’s probably spent more time sitting on the couch solo than with company. This is the first time he’s felt that he’s sitting on the couch _alone_. “Tequila needs you?”

“Yes,” Ginger Ale says. “He called me last night – he’s thinking of quitting. Not just Stateman, but porn entirely. His sister’s been on him about how he’s not getting any younger, about how porn is a young man’s game – ”

“Tell that to Harry Hard-On,” Eggsy snaps. Hart is sixty if he’s a day, and the merest hint that he might be dusting off the ol’ dong has had press clamoring at Statesman’s door and preorders through the roof.

“Tequila’s no Harry Hard-On,” Ginger Ale says bluntly. “And he never will be. The porn stars who have a long career are the ones who get famous young. Like Harry. Or you.”

Eggsy stands up, fighting to keep the tears in his eyes. “What if _I_ said I needed you? Ginger Ale, things are happening – I know from the outside it looks like it’s all roses, but it’s not as easy as that. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. Maybe I do well on this film, but maybe I crash and burn. I’m only three years in this industry, I don’t – ” he swallows. “I need someone in my corner to help me get through this.”

Ginger Ale hesitates, but only for a second. Her lips press together and she shakes her head. Her voice is flat when she says: “You’ll be fine.”

And there it is, really. Eggsy hadn’t asked for Harry Hart to walk into his life and make him a star. But he can’t say, honestly, that he would have turned it down. Even if he had known it would cost him Tequila and Ginger Ale.

That doesn’t make it hurt less.

“I’m gonna, I’m just gonna – ” Eggsy shoves his feet into his trainers and flees out the door, not bothering to finish the sentence. Not bothering coming up with the excuse. What does it matter, anyway? They both know it would be just that. An excuse.

The truth is, Eggsy just doesn’t want to sit alone on that couch while Ginger Ale packs to leave him.

* * *

“Well you’re here early,” Harry says, sounding surprised. “Was there a schedule change I wasn’t aware of?”

Eggsy shakes his head. He’s still blinking spots out of his eyes; Harry had flicked on the studio lights when he’d entered. Eggsy, lying on his back on the ‘hotel bed’ from yesterday’s scenes, had been staring right at the overhead floods.

“Didn’t expect you here so early either, bruv. Usually no one’s in till later.” Unless there’s an all-night shoot, which there isn’t: Eggsy had checked the schedule. At six in the morning, the place ought to be deserted. Just his luck that Harry is a workaholic. He shoves to his feet. “I can head out if you need the space.”

“Not at all,” Harry says. It sounds like pure reflex. It occurs to Eggsy to wonder how Harry can sound so much like a toff when he wants to. When Harry Hart had first come into the studio, that’s exactly what they’d all thought he was, with his tailored suits and his perfect RP and his ability to look down his nose at Chester King. Now that Eggsy knows he’s also Harry Hard-On, darling bit-of-rough male lead of the 80s and 90s porn industry, it suddenly seems a little weird.

“Where’d you learn to talk like that?” Eggsy demands.

“Like what?” Now Harry is regarding Eggsy as if he’s a particularly interesting form of insect.

“Like a swell.”

“Perhaps because I am a swell.”

“That’s crap,” Eggsy says, angry now for reasons he can’t quite explain. Well. Except he can explain them. He’s angry because Ginger Ale and Tequila have left him, thrown away what they had as if it were nothing. And he’s directing some of that anger at Harry – not just because Harry is the one who’s here, although that’s part of it; but also because of Harry’s inherent dichotomy, the porn star and the gentleman.  If two people who he’d known as well as Ginger Ale and Tequila could up and leave Eggsy in his time of need, how much more likely is it that two-faced Harry ‘Hard-On’ Hart will do the same thing?

“Not at all,” Harry says. “I am, in fact, the seventeenth Earl of Matlock. That’s about as swell as it gets.”

“No way.” Eggsy’s jaw drops. This is an inopportune time to remember that, yesterday, said jaw had been stretched to bursting by the very cock Harry is packing in those tailored trousers. “You’re fucking noble?”

“I fuck, and I am noble,” Harry agrees with a chuckle. “Therefore I am.”

Eggsy isn’t laughing. “How the fuck did someone like you end up doing porn?”

“My dear boy, I realize that times have changed, but surely you have been told at some point the prevailing attitude towards homosexuality in the 1980s.”

Eggsy processes this. “You got kicked out?”

Harry sits down next to him. The ‘hotel bed’ is not particularly soft, but it was enough for Eggsy to get a few hours’ kip after he’d stumbled into the studio in the wee hours. The fact that every manner of bodily fluid, natural and artificial, has been spilled on it at some point hadn’t much bothered Eggsy; part of the job. It also doesn’t seem to bother Harry, although his suit is probably worth as much as Eggsy pays in rent for a year.

Rent. Well, at least Eggsy doesn’t have to worry about how he’s going to cover the flat without Ginger Ale and Tequila’s contributions. He’s making enough now that he can afford to have the place to himself.

He’s thinking he might move.

“I did not get kicked out,” harry says calmly, “although the difference was a matter of some minutes: I fled before my father could properly finish the job. He disinherited me, of course. Left the family fortune to some God-awful conversion therapy. But the title is entailed; he couldn’t prevent me coming into it upon his death.”

“That son of a bitch,” Eggsy says involuntarily. He’s read about conversation therapy, he has – “How could he do that?”

Harry shrugs. He’s still perfectly calm, perfectly at ease, as he’s always been. But suddenly Eggsy sees something he’s never been close enough to see before: a muscle in Harry’s jaw, ticking slightly. “I put them out of business,” he says, as if he’s discussing the weather. “If you’ve ever wondered how I ousted King so effortlessly – well, let’s just say I’d had practice in the art of hostile takeovers.”

“But – porn?”

“It was that or prostitution. Besides. It was also one of the few ways I could have the kind of sex I wanted to be having.” Harry turns to give Eggsy a kindly smile. “It also made me filthy rich. So you see I really can’t complain.”

Eggsy hesitates. It would be easy to nod, to agree,  but –

_Ginger Ale, things are happening – I know from the outside it looks like it’s all roses, but it’s not as easy as that... I need someone in my corner to help me get through this._

“I think maybe you still get to complain,” Eggsy says quietly. “I think things turning out well don’t make it okay that all that happened to you.”

There’s a pause. “Thank you, Eggsy,” Harry says at last. “That’s… well, I appreciate that.”

Eggsy shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable. “Yeah, well.” He starts to stand up, but freezes when one of Harry’s hands curls around Eggsy’s wrists.

“And now perhaps you’ll tell me why you’re here at such an ungodly hour.”

“I – well, I – ” Once again, Eggsy’s ability to find excuses fails him. He lets himself flop back down, all the way back until he’s staring up at the overhead lights again. His eyes fall closed. “Ginger Ale is leaving too,” he says to the inside of his eyelids.

“Ah,” Harry says. Eggsy opens his eyes a slit – Harry is nodding. “I imagine that’s what that email I received on my way here is to tell me.”

“Probably.” Eggsy rolls onto his side, away from Harry and the blinding lights. “Tequila’s not coming back. She decided he was the important thing in his life.”

“Not you,” Harry says, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

“No.” Eggsy’s eyes are watering. From having to look at the lights, of course. “I guess I should have known. It was always the two of them, long before I came long. When I joined the studio they offered to let me kip on the couch. One thing led to another and I thought…” he shakes his head. “I was wrong. I was a novelty. Instead of adopting a dog they adopted me, I guess.”

“Eggsy, if I may, I would like to give you a piece of advice I wish someone had given me.” There’s a dip in the ‘bed’ next to where Eggsy is lying, and unwillingly Eggsy rolls over; Harry has moved closer and leaned down, planting an elbow on the ‘bed’ to create the change in local gravity. “If someone doesn’t want to be with you?” He pauses to make sure Eggsy is paying attention. When Eggsy nods, Harry says, with posh enunciation: “Fuck ‘em.”

Eggsy half-snorts. “Great advice. Easy to say, anyway.”

“There’s a second part to it. Would you like to hear it?”

“Please,” Eggsy says. “Enlighten me.”

Harry leans in. Eggsy is abruptly aware that they are very close to each other, in a deserted studio, on something that can charitably be called a bed. “If someone  _does_  want to be with you?” Harry begins.

Eggsy fails to swallow the rising bubble of laughter. “Fuck ‘em?” he suggests. He leans closer, until the barest breath separates their lips. 

Harry’s grin flashes in the brightness of the lights. “I thought you’d never offer.”

* * *

Eggsy may be one of the youngest workers in the Statesman studios, but he hasn’t thought of himself as a greenhorn in a while. The experience of limping off to the dressing room after only the third take ever on _Magic Harry XXXXXXXL_ is having him reconsider that stance.

“I knew he had a huge dong,” he says to Roxy, who has trailed behind him, probably to investigate Eggsy’s condition at Merlin’s behest. “But it’s one thing to know it and another thing to have it up your arse.” Roxy doesn’t need to know that today’s shoot hadn’t been the first time, either.

“You gonna be able to handle this film?” Roxy asks, confirming Eggsy’s suspicions about why she’s here.

“Of course I can handle it!” Eggsy says, instantly outraged and professionally offended.

Roxy waves this aside like the experienced director she is. “Because there are things you could do,” she says, totally serious. “Exercises. Stretches.”

Eggsy boggles. “Stretches.”

“Well, I know you’re not getting fucked off the clock regularly anymore, with Tequila gone, so something to supplement that regimen…” Roxy lets her voice trail off sympathetically.

Eggsy covers his face with his hands. “Actually, it was Ginger Ale, mostly,” he says, muffled. “Tequila bottomed even more than I did.”

“Ahh.” Roxy sounds enlightened. “I _did_ suspect that might be how that worked.”

“And I’m fine.” He’s not going to tell her he’s going to get plenty of practice on the real thing. Porn studios may be the hottest hotbeds of gossip known to humankind, even worse than second form, but this is one secret Eggsy is determined to keep. At least until after _Magic Harry_ comes out. Then Eggsy can stand or fall on his own merit.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” Roxy threatens. “No one’s getting hurt on this film. If I have to hold you down and stretch you out myself, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“That’s right terrifying, that is,” Eggsy mutters. He may get fucked for a living, but something about the thought of having Roxy do it makes him shudder. She reminds him too much of his sister. And if Eggsy finds daddy kink boring, sister/step-sister kink is downright off-putting.

Roxy grins at him sunnily. “Then that’s motivation for you to keep in form yourself, isn’t it?”

She takes herself off without further ado, before Eggsy can think of a suitable reply. He flops down into the nearest chair and hisses with pain. Outside, someone shouts, “Ten minutes!”

Eggsy groans. Harry Hard-On’s cock is going to be the death of him.

* * *

Eggsy would never admit it, but Roxy is right; stretching does, in fact, help. He doesn’t think she had imagined him being stretched by Harry’s magic fingers, spread on Harry’s amazingly decadent bed in his freaking _Mayfair townhouse_ , what the fuck, but Eggsy isn’t complaining. It’s a hell of a lot nicer than his own rundown flat, though somewhat farther from the office. And the company can’t be beat.

The flat is too empty, these days. When Ginger Ale and Tequila had been there it had often been too full: it had been a fairly tiny two-bedroom in the first place, inevitable given its prime location, and cramming in Eggsy had sometimes made it feel as if someone had to sit on the ceiling. They’d made it work, helped along by their widely divergent schedules and willingness to sleep two (or three) to a bed, but there had been no denying it had been hard to fit enough milk in the fridge for them all to have a cuppa. Harry’s fridge could probably fit _Eggsy_. He has an insane amount of space, and it should feel huge and rambling, but with Harry to fill up the space it’s only ever felt cozy.

Eggsy starts spending more and more of his time there. He worries at first that he’s imposing, but soon realizes how foolish he is. Harry had picked _him_ out, long before Eggsy had ever given him a second glance. While Ginger Ale and Tequila had been around, Harry had been a perfect gentleman. But Eggsy’s now-former lovers had departed and left the treasure unguarded, and Harry had shown not the slightest qualm about swooping in to take Eggsy for himself. No angsting, no ‘what if your lovers return’, no hesitation. The first time there had been a multi-day break in shooting _Magic Harry_ , Harry had waited until Eggsy had emerged from his dressing room, then put a hand at the small of his back and propelled him calmly and inexorably towards Harry’s waiting car. Harry had taken Eggsy back to his townhouse, put him on Harry’s bed, and proceeded to demonstrate a level of skill that more than justified his illustrious, multi-decade career. By the time Eggsy had gotten back to work, he was well broken in. Roxy had noticed his lack of a limp and nodded approvingly.

That had been that, as far as Eggsy’s resistance had been concerned. Having someone else take charge is a novel sensation. He’s been directing his own life more or less as long as he could remember: the dual blow of his da’s death and raising his baby sister had more or less taken mum out of the running as an authority figure in Eggsy’s life, so Eggsy had just got on doing what he thought needed to be done at any point. She’d made an effort to get him to uni, but hadn’t been too upset when he’d said it wasn’t for him and to save the money for Daisy. Instead he’d called the number on the flyers that had gone up recently around the estates - young men wanted for a fashion shoot, must be 18, no experience required - and the rest had been history. Eggsy hadn’t been too surprised when he’d turned up to discover that ‘fashion shoot’ had been secret code for ‘porn extra’ - honestly, they’d barely been discreet - and what the hell, it had paid well. After the first few gigs it had started paying even more when his contract had been picked up by Statesman, Ltd. Around that time Mum had had to move up to Scotland to take care of Eggsy’s aging Gran. Eggsy’s new coworkers Ginger Ale and Tequila had offered him their couch to kip on until he could find a bedsit that wouldn’t bankrupt him. One thing had led to another and Eggsy had never moved out.

The point is: Eggsy has been running his own life since he was barely higher than his mum’s waist. He would have said, if asked, that he liked it that way. Even in his relationship with Ginger Ale and Tequila, he’d been at least as much of a driving force as either of them. But it turns out that having someone else take command is ridiculously sexy. And Harry had _already_ been ridiculously sexy. It ain’t fair, is what it is. No one should have it all: legs for days, a wicked grin, a twelve-inch dick _and_ the know-how to use it, more money than than the Prime Minister, a title to hang off his hat-stand, a growl that never fails to make Eggsy shiver and roll right over and a smile that never fails to make Eggsy melt -

Eggsy refuses to think he might be falling a little bit in love.

* * *

Filming on _Magic Harry_ wraps a month later. The envelope arrives the same day. Eggsy doesn’t open it right away: he grabs it out of the mailroom in the foyer of his flat as he runs out the door, cursing his lateness for the final shoot. He hasn’t been back to the flat for a week, and the tiny box had been crammed full. Junk mail, mostly, but Eggsy doesn’t have time to sort it out - he wouldn’t have taken time to pick it up, either, if he hadn’t gotten the stink-eye from the postman as he’d been skidding down the stairs. But it’s all worth it when Eggsy sees the spiky handwriting on one of the envelopes. Eggsy knows that handwriting, has seen it on shopping lists and IOUs and random notes scrawled and left around the flat. It’s Tequila’s. They’ve written him.

The alarm on Eggsy’s smartphone beeps, and he curses. He is _so late_. Eggsy shoves the envelope, along with the rest of his mail, into his backpack, and runs like mad for the studio, forgetting about everything else in his haste.

After the final _“Cut!”_ is shouted, and _Magic Harry_ is officially in the can, the after-party begins. Roxy may be shaping up to be a slavedriver just like her mentor Merlin, but she’s got the first corks off the champagne bottles before the main lights have even cooled down, and her production assistants are setting up food on the long folding tables where the script corrections usually reside. Cast and crew are willing to forgive much for a producer who keeps them in the finer things in life. Considering that Roxy’s never skimped on the condom quality neither, not like the unlamented Chester King, everyone is soon singing her praises in increasingly off-key voices as one by one the bottles of champagne move from their places of honor to the recycling bin out back in the alley.

Well, everyone except Eggsy. Not that he doesn’t hold Rox in high esteem. But for once the champagne isn’t calling his name. He tells himself it’s because he’s been getting pounded into a fake mattress under blazing hot lights for the past few hours, and what he needs more than anything else is water. Eggsy accordingly goes in search of some, and if that leads him to hole up in his dressing room for a while, well, that’s just because Roxy is so good at her job, innit? Always makes sure the casts’ rooms are well stocked. Eggsy’s got a whole minifridge full of water. A real star in the industry, is Roxanne Morton. Going to go far.

Eggsy sprawls on his chair with his modesty robe on and not much else, a half-empty bottle of water clutched in one hand, and broods. Life sure is a funny place. On the one hand, he should be riding high. His career had already been taking off, and now it’s about to get supercharged: he’s starring opposite the famous Harry Hard-On in what is already being billed as the porn film of the decade, if not the quarter-century. The royalties he’s getting on the presales alone would be enough to pay rent and keep him in takeaway for a year.

The thought of rent makes him sour, though, and then it’s crashing in on him, the reason he’s in here hiding instead of out there partying. It’s because Ginger Ale and Tequila aren’t here to party with him. Yes, Harry is; and yes, Eggsy values him. Values him highly. Maybe is falling in love with him, a little bit. And Harry’s been down this path before. He knows what’s coming. He’s in Eggsy’s corner in a way that Ginger Ale and Tequila couldn’t have been.

But they could have been in Eggsy’s corner in other ways. As a grounding force, a reminder of where he’s come from, where he never wants to totally leave behind. Titles and townhouses are all well and good, but part of Eggsy’s always going to be that boy from the estates.

Eggsy’s selfish, he supposes. He doesn’t understand why he can’t have them all.

Then he perks up in sudden remembrance. _The envelope!_ Ginger Ale and Tequila had written. He’d meant to open it as soon as there had been a quiet moment on set, which is a joke on Eggsy: there’s no such thing as a quiet moment on any set, never mind the final shot of _Magic Harry_. But this moment seems plenty quiet, and he’s dying to know what they’ve written. Maybe they’re coming back soon. Maybe they want him to make sure the sheets are washed and curry ready for pickup from the shop on the corner, just like any of the other few times they’d traveled without him. In the past Eggsy would have laughed at such a request. This time he thinks he’ll do it. Just… for them.

His backpack’s on the ground next to the door to his dressing room, where Eggsy had dropped it in his haste to disrobe and get on set. Eggsy scrambles out of his chair. The edge of his robe catches on its arm; Eggsy lets it slide off his body unconcernedly. Nudity is nothing new around these parts. Besides, the dressing room is empty except for Eggsy, and Eggsy has more pressing matters.

The envelope is heavier than Eggsy remembers. Thick, too. Not only with its contents but with its quality: Eggsy recognizes premium cardstock, a grey that seems somehow elegant. Even the rich blue ink Tequila had used seems to almost glow.

The flap yields easily to his thumb sliding under it. Too easily - Eggsy isn’t expecting it to give right away, and so the photographs spill out, scattering around him on the floor of his dressing room. Eggsy is reminded of the wrap party after _The Slutty Service,_ the way Tequila had poured champagne over Eggsy’s head. The golden river had cascaded down to splash around him. Like the pictures had. In the pictures’ white edges Eggsy sees the way the champagne had foamed around his feet. A miniature ocean, just for Eggsy, and he had drunk his champagne that night from Tequila’s lips, while Ginger Ale toasted them both with her namesake beverage.

Eggsy kneels slowly and picks up the first picture. Then the second. Then the third.

He knows what he’s seeing.

They’re tastefully done, he thinks. Elegant. Ginger Ale must have insisted on hiring a professional. Tequila would have had his sister take these with a point-and-shoot. Even if they are his engagement photos.

The envelope had contained two other things. One is a rectangle of thick cardstock, the same dark grey color as the envelope itself, but printed with a pale silver ink. _Mr. George Andrews and Miss Ginger Thomas invite the pleasure of your company…_

Eggsy drops the invitation carelessly. The other thing in the envelope had been a plain sheet of paper, and as he unfolds it, he sees Tequila’s spiky handwriting again.

_Eggsy,_

_I guess this is going to come as a surprise to you, but honestly, things have been heading this way for years. I never wanted to do porn for the long term and it’s not like I was making enough money to last at it anyway. I’ve been thinking about moving back home for a while and this gave me the final push. Don’t let it get you down - if I hadn’t met you, I probably would have done this years ago._

_No hard feelings, eh? Hope to see you at the shindig._

_Cheers,_

_Tequila._

No hard feelings, Eggsy thinks. Only Tequila could dump someone via wedding invitation and think there won’t be _hard feelings_.

Below Tequila’s signature is a postscript in Ginger Ale’s more rounded handwriting.

_Eggsy, it’s been fun. Thanks for all the good times. We all knew it wasn’t going to last forever, right? Best of luck in your future endeavors. - G_

Eggsy reads this all twice. Then he picks up the invitation and reads it again, too, before closing his eyes and letting his chin drop to his chest.

“No, Ginger Ale,” he sighs to the empty room. “ _You_ knew it wasn’t going to last forever. You just never bothered to tell me.”

The knock on his door makes him jump, but paradoxically, he finds he’s unsurprised. Eggsy’s one of the co-stars of the film they all just finished shooting, and he’s not out there being showered in champagne and good wishes: of course someone was eventually going to come looking for where he’d gone. And of course, Eggsy thinks as he calls for them to come in and the door opens to reveal the knocker, of course it would be his fellow co-star who would be the one to come looking.

“Eggsy, are you - what’s wrong?” Harry’s demeanor switches from jovial to serious in an instant. He comes the rest of the way into the dressing room and closes the door behind him. The noise from the party drops back to a dull roar. He takes in the scene, and Eggsy imagines the picture he must make: kneeling, naked, surrounded by photos of his ex-lovers’ engagement, the wedding invite and dear john letter clutched one in each hand. It must be an evocative tableau. The part of Eggsy that is a professional actor wishes someone were there to film it.

Harry approaches him slowly and holds out a hand. “May I?”

Eggsy looks at his hand. He knows that Harry is offering him that hand metaphorically as well as literally. Offering to help him up, in whatever way Eggsy needs. And what Eggsy needs is to hold out the invitation and the letter, and let Harry take them from his hands.

The invitation Harry takes in at a glance; its standardization speaks for itself. The letter he spends more time on. By the time Harry’s done, his eyes are spitting fire.

“We haven’t released either of them from their contracts,” Harry says coldly. “Only placed them on extended leave. Both contracts have heavy penalty clauses for failure to complete. No doubt there’s an email in my inbox right now, asking that those clauses be waived. Say the word, Eggsy, and I’ll make them pay through the nose.”

Eggsy blinks slowly. He’s tempted, so tempted. “Ask me again later,” he says slowly. “I can’t - right now, I can’t - ”

“Of course.” Harry kneels down next to him, careless of the photos, and puts his arms around Eggsy. “I don’t understand it,” he says to himself. “What utter foolishness.”

That makes Eggsy swallow a sob. “It were always the two of them, before I came along,” he says thickly. “I thought - but I was wrong.”

Harry’s arms tighten. “There are others who value you more truly,” he says, low and hot.

From outside the dressing room, there’s a sudden roar of noise. The after-party has heated up. Someone is probably doing a keg stand. Eggsy shrinks from the thought of staying here. But he can’t go back to the flat, either. And he hasn’t got anywhere else to go. Except -

“Harry,” he says, aware that he sounds like a petulant, demanding child, and not finding himself able to care. “Get me out of here. Take me to your place, I want to go to your place. Your home. With you.”

Harry blinks rapidly. Eggsy, watching him, guesses some of what he must be thinking. This is his party too, and not just because it’s his film, but because it’s his studio. Being the owner comes with a lot of perks, but it’s work, too, and not just of the financial and managerial kind. Harry’s got to show at all the events. Smile at everyone and know everyone’s name. Be last at the party, be the one to turn out the lights.

It’s not exactly that Statesman is going to fall apart if Harry leaves early from one wrap party, even one as important as this. Harry’s done too good a job running the place for that. But Eggsy isn’t asking for something easy to give, either. Harry had probably seen tonight as a triumph for them both. Eggsy is asking him to give up that celebration.

Eggsy wants to see if Harry will make him a priority. The way Ginger Ale and Tequila never would.

“Of course,” Harry says, making his decision and rising, tugging Eggsy up along with him. “Put on your coat first. It’s cold outside.”

* * *

Over the course of the next week, Eggsy starts (and fails to finish) thirty-one distinct letters to his now-former lovers, whose tone ranges from biting through bitter and finally fetches up at begging. Begging them to tell him why, tell him what about him made him unworthy, tell him -

Harry finds the thirty-first unfinished letter when he walks in with their evening’s takeaway to find Eggsy crying over it in Harry’s living room. He takes it from Eggsy’s, reads it, and rips it methodically to pieces. “They’re the ones who are unworthy,” he says, fury leaking from every word and gesture. “They ought to be on their knees begging you to take them back. And you, my darling, you ought to throw them out of your lives with nothing but contempt and scorn.”

“You sound like you hate them,” Eggsy says miserably.

“I do.”

“But you see,” Eggsy says, wiping away his tears, “I don’t.”

Harry sighs. “That makes you a much better person than I’ll ever be.”

“You ought to be glad. Now you get me all to yourself.”

“Of course,” Harry says, without a trace of guilt. “But I’m furious that they hurt you on their way out. They were supposed to quietly withdraw from the field of battle after realizing that you were far above their reach.”

“But you ain’t?” Eggsy finds himself chuckling in spite of his watery eyes. “You’re a snob, you are.”

“You knew that already, darling.”

“Then what d’you want with me?”

“A snob,” Harry says austerely, “has only the finest. And you, Eggsy Unwin, are the finest thing I have encountered in many years.”

“I suppose,” Eggsy says slowly, “as a porn star - ”

“The most famous of the last century,” Harry points out, immodest but truthful.

Eggsy nods. “You must certainly have seen plenty of flesh.”

“And just as many spoiled, bratty divas.” Harry shudders. “There’s no comparison.”

“What about Ginger Ale and Tequila?” This is probably a bad idea to ask about, but Eggsy is still hurting, seeing _honestly, things have been heading this way for years_ and _we all knew it wasn’t going to last forever_ when he closes his eyes at night. Eggsy presses onwards. “How do they stack up, in your vast experience?”

Harry tips his head slightly to one side. “Sufficiently attractive for the industry,” he allows. “Which means gorgeous by any other standard; but I’ve seen better. Work ethic no better than average. But as individuals…” Now he shakes his head. “They are hardly as toxic as many of the divas I’ve encountered in the past. But they, as many of their ilk, are fundamentally self-centered. When we began our liaison, you said something very telling to me. You said you were a novelty to them. What they did instead of adopt a dog. I am sorry to say that I think you had it exactly right.”

The half-smile falls off of Eggsy’s face. “Yeah,” he says dismally. “I think I did too.”

Harry steps closer, puts his arms around Eggsy. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I am truly sorry.”

Eggsy doesn’t want to think about Harry’s sorrow. Nor does he want to dwell on the mismatch between his perception of his relationship with Ginger Ale and Tequila and the reality of it. So he chooses a third option. “Take me to bed?” he asks, tipping his chin up to be kissed.

Harry, of course, obliges. “Your wish is my command,” he murmurs, when his lips leave Eggsy’s. “Come on, then.”

“That’s the idea,” Eggsy agrees, and lets Harry lead him upstairs.

* * *

“So I’m thinking I need to find a new place to live,” Eggsy says two weeks later, trying out the words outside his head for the first time. He’s been thinking it on and off since Ginger Ale had left, but it hasn’t felt safe to speak of it before now: as if saying it aloud would be casting a spell to make it certain that Ginger Ale and Tequila never would come back. But that ship has well and truly sailed. Ginger Ale and Tequila are gone. And Eggsy’s post-coital in Harry’s bed, being cuddled within an inch of his life, and between the dimness of the room and the warmth of another body next to his - he’s missed that so much, even more than the sex - the words just come out.

Harry hums sleepily. “What brought this on?”

Eggsy sighs. “I keep seeing ghosts. Not literal ghosts,” he clarifies hastily, lest Harry think Eggsy is actually speaking of the paranormal. “Just. The flat’s tiny, and every surface has memories. It makes me not want to go back. I know the location is great, I probably won’t find anything near so convenient, but...” he trails off and shrugs with the shoulder he’s lying on, where his body meets Harry’s and Harry will feel the gesture even if he can’t see it.

“I understand,” Harry says softly. Then more firmly: “Well, that’s easily settled. When would you like me to schedule the movers?”

Eggsy blinks slowly. He’d thought he might work up to this slowly, might suggest, but Harry - “You mean, move in here?”

In the soft glow of the bedside table lamp that is the only illumination in the room, Harry is giving Eggsy a fondly exasperated look. “Eggsy,” he says slowly, as if Eggsy is the new intern at Statesman who can’t seem to remember that Harry _does_ want cream and _does not_ want sugar and keeps serving Harry his tea the wrong way round. “You already live here. I’ve just been waiting for you to realize how inconvenient it is keeping your kit somewhere else.”

“Oh,” Eggsy says stupidly. When he really thinks about it - “You’re right, aren’t you.”

“Usually,” Harry says. “Now, since we both seem to be awake, shall we celebrate?”

* * *

_Magic Harry_ comes out to record-breaking sales, which is unsurprising, and rave reviews, which is gratifying. Any film with Harry Hard-On’s name was always going to sell, but genuine critical acclaim had been far from guaranteed - it would have been just as easy for the whole thing to be derided as a cash-grab, an ill-advised attempt at a comeback by a diva far past his prime. Instead they get to issue the second DVD printing with quotes on the jacket like “Harry Hard-On has lost none of his touch, his dick none of its length, and in his young co-star has finally found a sexual partner worthy of his screen prowess.” Eggsy may print that review out in its entirety and hang it in his dressing-room. It spends an entire paragraph praising the way Eggsy’s arse flexes during the penultimate sex scene, where they’re going at it doggy-style and the camera does a full three-sixty. Eggsy had done extra glute exercises for a month to be sure the muscles would ripple in high-def.

Eggsy had been afraid of the resulting publicity, worried that he wouldn’t be able to go down to the shop for milk without being recognized like some big screen actor, but that worry quickly dissipates in the light of day. Porn may sell well but no one’s really memorizing his face. Besides, as Harry points out, Eggsy had literally worked for the most famous face in porn for two years without ever realizing that Mr. Hart was Harry Hard-On. The guy working the register at the corner store isn’t going to be any more perspicacious.

Eggsy is still shaking his head that Harry had somehow managed to use the word _perspicacious_ in daily conversation.

“Comes of an Eton education,” Harry had said, before bending Eggsy over and showing what else an Eton education had taught him. Maybe Eggsy had missed out after all by not going to public school.

The sales from _Magic Harry_ more than justify a sequel, in addition to making Eggsy personally richer than he had ever been. Eggsy fills Daisy’s uni fund and tells his mum to pick a vacation spot. They all three go spend two weeks in Aruba, and when Eggsy gets back, Harry takes one look at him and decrees that the _Magic Harry_ sequel is going to be set on a Caribbean island.

“Oh, yes,” Harry says when Eggsy gapes at him. “There’s no way I’m wasting that tanline, darling. _When_ did you find time to sunbathe nude while away with your mother and sister?”

Eggsy turns bright red and mumbles something about midday naps. He doesn’t say he’d done it for Harry. It turns out he doesn’t need to. Harry demonstrates his appreciation quite thoroughly later on.

That night, Eggsy finds himself awake just gone two A.M. and can’t quite seem to go back to sleep. Some of it’s the time difference between London and Aruba; it’s a five-hour swing. Some of it’s just… thinking. Going away for a few weeks had made him realize what he really cared about, anymore. Made him see what it is he’d really been wanting to come back to, and what had just been a habit of thought he’d yet to put down.

Yawning, Eggsy pads downstairs and rummages through the pile of mail that lives on the corner of one of Harry’s kitchen counters. It’s a small counter to the right of the microwave, no good for any kind of food prep, and so ends up accumulating bits of odds and ends instead until its local gravity threatens to exceed containment and spill all over the floor. Somehow it never quite does, though. Eggsy has dubbed it ‘the black hole’. And somewhere in its sucking maw is the wedding invite Ginger Ale and Tequila had sent him.

At last he fishes the whole envelope out. The invite itself is just as he had remembered it, all heavy cardstock and rich, shining ink. The pictures are glossy and tastefully done. For a long time Eggsy just stands there looking at it all. Looking at the pictures of Ginger Ale and Tequila, beaming and happy. It’s still weird to see them looking so domestic. Their lives together had been many things, but domestic had never been one of them. It’s like a promotional still from that film they’d done - _The Slutty Service_ , the first film the three of them had ever made under Harry. Eggsy could see the two people in the picture buying curtains. Adopting a real dog. Working at some typical kind of job.

Eggsy wonders why he hadn’t realized up until now that he’d never even once considered following them. He’d never thought about buying a train ticket of his own, leaving Statesman, moving to Shropshire. He’d always been wondering when they’d come back. The thought of changing his own life had never occurred to him. Now that it _has_ occurred to Eggsy, he rejects it almost out of hand. He has everything he wants right here.

He sorts out the RSVP card from the pile. A moment’s further rummaging amidst the clutter turns up a pen. With a flourish, Eggsy uncaps the pen and checks ‘decline’ on the RSVP. There’s a pre-stamped envelope it goes in, and Eggsy seals it and sets it aside, propped up against the kettle where he’ll see it tomorrow and remember to drop it in the mail.

Yes, tomorrow. On his way out of the flat. On his way back to Statesman, where Eggsy will get started on script readings for the sequel to _Magic Harry_. And tonight?

Tonight Eggsy turns the lights back off in the kitchen, and goes back upstairs to Harry.

**Author's Note:**

> My third and final fic for Kingsman Reverse Big Bang 2019! Thanks to the mods and to emmatheslayer for the art!


End file.
